


Tumblr Prompts:  Teen Wolf

by peterqpan



Series: Teen Wolf Dogpile [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Comedy, Derek has too many very long days, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Milkshakes ward off darkness, Rating upped for language, Stiles was definitely a ridiculous child, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-03-06 02:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18841786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterqpan/pseuds/peterqpan
Summary: Unrelated prompt each chapter, though this first one can dovetail with my 5+1 conversations Sterek fic.Prompt one:“because.. ive been really wanting to read Sterek meeting… aand Stiles running into Derek a lot and making puns or little hints that he knows Derek is a werewolf but like werewolves arent known other than like other supernaturals or hunters…maybe so then chaos and Stiles saves Derek…”After the sheriff left, Derek tried to calm his breathing.  He concentrated on the gross smells of the office sofa, but his throat nearly closed–he didn’t need to smell more fear-sweat than his own.  His eyelashes felt thick and wet with water, and he surreptitiously wiped his nose with his fingers, rubbing them clean on the back of the knee of his jeans.  Just when his second redirection attempt–imagining the metallic taste of the stale black coffee at the local 7-11–was successfully making him kinda annoyed, there was a thump under the sheriff’s desk.  And aheartbeat.Subscribe to the series (Teen Wolf Dogpile) to see any more TW fic I get up to, or follow me on Tumblr as Platypan, OR on Pillowfort as Peterqpan!





	1. Stiles Thinks He's Punny (Derek wishes he'd stop)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SionainnShay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SionainnShay/gifts).



> This was a pretty quick write, it's about as silly as I get!

After the sheriff left, Derek tried to calm his breathing.  He concentrated on the gross smells of the office sofa, but his throat nearly closed–he didn’t need to smell more fear-sweat than his own.  His eyelashes felt thick and wet with water, and he surreptitiously wiped his nose with his fingers, rubbing them clean on the back of the knee of his jeans.  Just when his second redirection attempt–imagining the metallic taste of the stale black coffee at the local 7-11–was successfully making him kinda annoyed, there was a thump under the sheriff’s desk.  And a _heartbeat._  He’d been so–he cleared his throat, tasting ashes, felt his eyes well up again, and smeared at them with his sleeve just as a child’s head peeked up over the top of the table, squinted at him, and then clattered back underneath.  The office chair spun away and thudded into a file cabinet.  Now that he was paying _attention,_ instead of–he shook his head, focusing on the quick heartbeat under the desk.  The head popped out again, near the floor, before Derek felt his shoulders hunch at the Sheriff’s voice in the hallway–right _outside,_ and he’d been so focused on the child he hadn’t heard that either–and the kid shushed him with a wet noise like sucking an empty straw, and in a series of thuds must have smacked every one of his body parts climbing back under the desk.  The door opened.

“Hey,” the Sheriff reached out, and pulled his hand back, probably because Derek had acted like it was a _grenade._  “You’re safe here, kid.”

 _I’m acting like I’m younger than the kid under his desk,_ Derek clenched his eyes shut and his _human, keep them human_ nails into his pant legs.  He took a long breath.  “Yes sir.  Sorry.”

When he left the office, the kid followed.  Derek caught his reflection out of the corner of his eye, trying to blend in with a file folder, like anyone was going to mistake a ten-year-old for an officer of the law.  Watching him zigzag across the corridor from the doorway to doorway in the stainless front of the small station fridge, Derek nearly took the arm off the deputy that threw it around his shoulder.

“Let me get you to your hotel.  I’m Deputy Brûlébois.”

Derek failed to move for a long moment.   _I smell wolfsbane on everyone now,_ he nearly laughed. _I’m going to be that guy that drops under the table at the restaurant because somebody in the back slapped down a tray._  The detective pushed him forward, squeezing his shoulder, and the kid’s shuffle across carpet startled him from where his whole brain had homed in on an imaginary scent.

As they walked out the door, the receptionist casually reached out and caught the kid by the hood.  He flailed, then, weirdly, _wolf-whistled_ as the door slammed.  

Derek conked his head when the Deputy pushed him into his car–which made sense, he guessed, he wasn’t a suspect in anything, the guy probably wasn’t thinking in terms of lawsuits.  

He did wonder why he’d been put in the back.

The deputy slowed well before they approached the motel.  Derek wasn’t in any particular hurry to get there–he knew Laura was taking a twentieth or thirtieth shower, trying to wash the greasy ash residue from her hair and nostrils.  Still, he wanted to be curled in the cheap, scratchy blankets hearing her bitch about the quality of the free shampoo much more than he wanted to be anywhere else, too far away to hear her thumping around and her heart beating through the bathroom door.  “Sheriff said to make sure you got something in your stomach,” the man grinned, wandering down side streets to a small diner.  

Derek blinked, trying to remember when he’d eaten last.  As the deputy pushed him into a booth, something thudded heavily against the side of the building.  The deputy shoved Derek back into his seat, rolling his eyes.  “Sit down, I need to make some phone calls.”  He slid out of the booth and stalked out to the phone booth on the street corner, and Derek was left with the cheery server asking him what he wanted from a seemingly endless list of beverages.

 _“Chocolate milkshake,”_ said a small, wheezy voice from the booth behind him, and he flinched.  

“Strawberry milkshake,” he told her, ignoring the whispered “Boooo,” behind him.  Once she was gone, he frowned at the menu.  “…what’d you do, ride your bike?” he whispered back.  “You smell gross.  Why are you following me?”

“He _knows,”_ the little voice whispered back, panting.  

Derek’s milkshake thumped down on the table in front of him, and the server turned to lean down into the next booth.  “What are you _doing_ down there, St–”

“Sorry!” the kid’s limbs flailed against the padded seat, but also thonked against the table and table leg, and Derek grimaced in sympathy.  “I sure am _hungry like a wolf,_ can I get some curly fries?”

The menu crumpled in Derek’s hands, and he quickly flattened it as Deputy Brûlébois came back in and dropped in the seat across from him.  

“Take your time.”  

Derek nodded, wondering how it was to not be able to hear hearts racing.  His felt like it was about to explode.  

“Just trying to sniff out something to _wolf down!”_ the boy behind him stage-whispered to the server, who laughed.  “What’s _smoking hot_ today, uh, Velma?  Just _burning with potential?”_

She snorted, leaning in to talk him through the specials, and Derek registered the deputy’s voice like it was coming from the other end of the train tunnel instead of across the table.  

“Kid,” the man sounded annoyed.  

“Y-yeah,” Derek refocused on the menu.

“Who’re you winking at,” Velma cackled at the terrifying ten-year-old behind him.  “I’m old enough to be your _grandmother.”_  

“Sister, definitely,” the kid thumped his elbow against their adjoining seat cushion.  “Just a _sister.”_

Derek felt his throat closing again, choking on a huge breath as he registered the Deputy’s hands on his, smacking his arm.  

“Order a fu–why don’t you just _order a burger?”_ Brûlébois slammed his fist into the table.

“A _burning hot sister,”_ the kid repeated, and Velma smacked him with the menu, cackling, and spun over to face Derek and the deputy.  

“Hey, you guys ready to–you _okay,_ honey?”

Derek kept his lips pressed between his teeth, eyes lowered, wondering whether he would regenerate if he wolfed out, terrifying the deputy and the waitstaff, and got shot in the head.  He gave a belated nod, feeling across his nails with his thumb before pointing at something on the menu.  Velma paused, and he realized he’d selected the Little Princess Rainbow Sprinkle Strawberry Stuffed Sparkle Waffles, but she wrote it down without comment, and turned to smile at the deputy.

“Gimme whatever you’ve got on tap, it’s gonna be a long day,” he leaned back, eyes narrowed at Derek.

“Tip your milkshake,” the little voice behind Derek whispered.  “He’ll have to go clean up.”

When Derek froze, staring down at the table, the back of the booth thumped him again.  “Come on, dude, it’s just _strawberry.”_

Derek turned, knocking it with his elbow, and Deputy Brûlébois swore as it dumped across the table into his lap.  He slammed his fist into the seat, teeth bared at Derek, then yanked himself out of the booth and stomped off to the restroom.  The kid scrabbled out of his booth and hauled at Derek’s shoulder.  

“Okay, dude, come _on,_ we gotta _go–”_

Moments later, Derek found himself shoved into the phone booth.  “Call her!  Call your sister, I heard them, they were _staking_ her or something.”

His shaking fingers misdialed once, but she picked up on the second try.  “Laura.  Something’s–I don’t know what–”

“Derek!” she gasped back.  “Are you okay?  There’s a–there’re a bunch of–”

The kid grabbed the phone.  “Get out of there, go to–” he rattled off an address, as Derek tried to get his claws to retract.  “Scott’s dad’s an FBI agent.  You can get in from their roof.  I don’t even know what the _hell,_ but they said they were gonna _stake_ you guys or something and they had _real guns–”_

“Is Derek okay!?” Derek could hear her scrambling around in the hotel room.

“I’ve got him, we’ll meet you there,” the kid said, standing straighter, and Derek reached for the phone just as she hung up.  The next thing Derek knew he was manhandled onto a shiny purple bicycle, the kid clambering on behind and grabbing at his jacket.  “Go go go!  Summon your bats!”

“What?!” Derek pedalled, feeling somewhat relieved–since this _had_ to be a dream, maybe some of the last week had been.  “What are you talking about.”

“They were all eating garlic!” the kid yelled over the air rushing by, slinging an arm around Derek’s shoulder so he could flail directions.  Derek swung the bike around the corner so fast the tires screeched.  “They had crossbows!  They called you monsters–”

Derek focused on pedalling, knees nearly to his ears, following the flailed pointing fingers out of the corners of his eyes.  Behind them, the deputy’s siren started in the diner parking lot.  

“Shit, here, turn–” Stiles yelled in his ear, directing him down a driveway and a yard, and they crashed through a three-foot high pile of sword ferns to get to tree cover.  It was clearer under the massive California pines, and Derek focused on avoiding ivy.

“So are they just all crazy?” the kid asked, once Derek slowed enough to stay on a winding trail.  “They said you could _transform._ They had to get Laura before she _transformed.”_

“…with you standing there?” Derek was glad the hunters were idiots, but it seemed convenient.  

The kid scoffed. _“I_ was in a _locker._ I was _trying_ to steal more _handcuffs.”_

 _“…more_ handcuffs,” Derek repeated, nearly crashing them as he tried to frown over his shoulder.  

“And I want a crossbow,” he whispered in Derek’s ear, and Derek was forced to consider the possibility that if werewolves were real, so, possibly, were goblins.

“Are you a vampire or _not,”_ the kid smacked his shoulder, and Derek couldn’t help snickering.

“Not.  Vampires aren’t real.  Neither’s Santa.”

“I know that!  They weren’t _hunting_ Santa! So...you’re useless.”

 _Yeah,_ Derek thought, _pretty much._ “I’m good at riding bikes,” he powered up a hill, and heard the kid going “Oooooo.”

The house was deserted when they pulled up, and Derek tossed the kid up to the roof over the porch before jumping after him.  “Hey,” Laura’s voice came from the window.

“He says you guys aren’t even vampires,” Stiles sighed, clambering through the window and landing mostly on his head.  

“…he’s right,” Laura bit her lips, then grabbed Derek as he climbed through the window, hugging him tightly.  “Are you okay?!”

“I didn’t get my sparkle princess waffles,” Derek admitted, and she laughed into his shoulder, her voice rough.

“Who’re you?” she asked the kid.

“Some goblin,” Derek ducked away from the kid’s flung pillow.  “He kidnapped me from the diner.”

“Well,” Laura dropped to sit on the stranger’s bed.  “Thanks.”

“I should call my dad–” the goblin began, and she shook her head, holding her hand out.  

“Thank you very much.  But we’ll go now.  I’ve got a full gas tank.  We’ll be okay.”

“Oh,” the goblin deflated, shaking her hand.  “…kinda sucks you aren’t actually vampires.”

“It would be convenient,” she nodded.  “Except during the day.  Thank you, goblin.”

“I’m not–!  What–!” the kid stomped.  “I saved you!  I gave up my curly fries for this!”

“Yes you did,” she leaned to pull him into a hug with Derek, but they both frantically wriggled free, sharing a wide-eyed look.  

“G’bye, non-Draculas, I guess,” the kid waved, then folded his arms, and Laura snorted, dragging Derek to the window.  

“Bye, Goblin.”

He flipped them off, grinning, and Derek ducked after his sister through the window, back across the roof, and jumped to the ground next to the small bicycle.  He’d pedalled so hard those first few miles he could smell the tires.

“G’bye, stupid humans,” the kid stage-whispered from the window, and Derek turned and waved, before Laura drug him into the car.

“What was that,” she laughed.  “What was he, like seven?”

“No idea.  He heard them talking about crossbows, and killing you before you transformed,” he took a shaky breath.  “He was hiding in a locker, trying to steal handcuffs.”

“…maybe he _was_ a goblin,” she blinked at the road, and smacking the map into his hands.  “Welp.  Goodbye forever, Beacon Hills,” she yelled out the sunroof.

Derek grinned.  “Goodbye, Goblin!” he joined in, yanking his sweatshirt from the back and inhaling.  It still smelled like home, and he swallowed, making a mental note to put it in a plastic bag.  He cleared his throat.  “Let’s stop for milkshakes.”

She nodded, snorting a laugh, and wiped her eyes.


	2. White Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a crime scene. It's definitely just an orgy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Prompt: What if Stiles is dating Derek and re-encounters Heather in college--and everybody's alive_

“Oh baby no,” Stiles groaned, smacking the dash above the gas gauge.  “We’re almost there, honey, come on--”

Roscoe gasped, huffed, and gave up the ghost ten feet from his parking space, starved into unconsciousness on the last vapours of fuel.

“...fine,” he sighed, opening the door to stick a leg out and push off the ground, his ass half on the seat.  She had just enough momentum to coast--with help--into his spot, and he yanked the handbrake, letting his eyes fall shut as his head hit the back of the seat.  The smell of Scott’s mom’s green bean casserole drifted forward.

“Could just live here,” he mumbled into the steering wheel.  “Seat leans back ‘n everything.” Unfortunately, his body gave that moment to give a full-body shiver.  “...probably shoulda closed the door,” he informed the steering wheel, sighing, before yanking on his backpack.  It was stuck between seats, so he shrugged and left it, just grabbing the leftover bag and the six pack of Red Bull he’d grabbed to make it home.

As he staggered out of the elevator, he fumbled his key out of his pocket, aiming it determinedly at the door reading 419.  He lingered on the mat, organizing Red Bull and the heavy brown paper bag of rolls, ham, and mashed potatoes, and vaguely hoping his werewolf boyfriend would scuttle up and open the door--and the door to 420 opened.

“I’m still jealous you got that room number--” he turned his smile around to Heather, his friend from gradeschool, who was covered in Cheeto dust and had dark circles like car tires under her eyes.  

“I see you’re readying yourself for _more,”_ she stared at his Red Bull.  

“What,” he squinted at her, just as someone grunted loudly behind his door.  It thudded in the frame, and she wrinkled her nose.

“I’m not a homophobe,” she began.  “I’m _not.”_

Stiles nodded, opening a Red Bull both to try and process the situation, and to hold up in front of whatever expression he probably had.  It didn’t sound like Derek at his back, but whoever it was, they were moaning now. “Whatever you lot get up to in there--”

“My lot,” he mouthed, glancing at the door--his eyes widened as he registered _blood_ pooling under it.  “Oh my god, you’re right, I’m so sorry, let me just--I’ll just go and tell them to shut up.”  Whoever it was’ voice rose and cracked, and Stiles winced, just as the door opened, the doorknob thunking into his back, and Boyd staggered out in only a pair of briefs.  

“What,” he glanced between Stiles and his interrogator.  “Tell Derek you’re home, he’s getting _rough.”_

Stiles’ eyes were taking a long slow stroll over Boyd’s abs and pectorals, until he accidentally breathed his Red Bull, and coughed it all over the floor. _“Rough.”_

“Really?! _Stiles,”_ Heather smacked her forehead.

Boyd and Stiles registered the blood on his shoulder at the same time, and Boyd turned so Heather wouldn’t see it.  “...is that food? We’re all starving in here. And gimme one of those.” He snagged a Red Bull, and Heather groaned against her doorframe.  

“Oh my _god,_ you guys, all I’ve heard for _three days_ is _grunting_ and _moaning_ and _‘You can take it, just a little longer’_ and _‘Stiles, Stiles--’”_

“Uh,” Stiles’ eyes widened as he shoved the bag of leftovers at Boyd and scrabbled at his pocket for his phone.  The battery was dead. “Uh, I wasn’t--”

“Uh,” Boyd echoed, glancing down at himself wearing only briefs in the hallway, and he slowly hid behind the bag before dodging back inside.  Stiles caught a flash of torn, bloodied clothes littering his hallway, and yanked the door shut. Erica’s voice rose in a warbling wail from inside, and Heather smacked her hand against the door.

“Stiles, _seriously,_ tell me you aren’t holding a _kidnapping victim_ in there.”  Another two doors opened down the hall, and apparently 417 had his grandparents visiting, so they poked their heads out.  Stiles hoped fervently they were on heart medication.

“No, no,” he swallowed some more energy drink, hoping a brain cell would answer its call.  “She’s just, um, with the orgy, I guess,” he beamed at her, trying not to worry about the crashing sounds within.

“If I didn’t _know_ you, I’d have called the _police,”_ she folded her arms.  “It sounds like a combat zone in there.“

He opened his mouth to protest whatever she was implying, and suddenly Allison and Erica’s voices yelled “HEAVE HO,” and someone--possibly Jackson?!--screamed.

Heather flailed her arms.  “I know you and Derek have a, uh, you know, _a healthy relationship--”_

 _Oh dear lord,_ he thought, wondering less how many neighbours had to listen to every syllable of their sexcapades, and more how many thought he LARPed werewolves and vampires with all his friends.

“But it’s been _daaaaays,”_ she stepped forward to shake his shoulders.  “--aren’t you _tired?_  Stiles.  Do you even have an ass _left to pound.”_

At another ululation from inside, he swallowed down the urge to ask how the hell many people she’d seen go IN there, then took a deep breath.  “Fuck yes I’m tired,” he whispered back, his muscles sore from an entire weekend of clearing ivy off the front of Scott’s house in exchange for food.  “My lily-white self is not built for this kind of--abuse--”

 _“Tell them to leave,”_ she whispered in his ear.

“No, no, um.  We have to finish our bucket list,” he patted her shoulder, just as what sounded like _Chris Argent_ shouted “Hold him down!” inside.  “...where do they keep _coming_ from,” Stiles stared back at the door.

“You didn’t _invite_ them?!”

“Uh nope, no, just a, uh, a constant stream of men.  All weekend,” he tried to keep his voice level at the image of Allison’s dad in there doing pornographic things with his entire highschool class, knowing his heart was pumping enough blood into his face to burst blood vessels in his eyeballs.  “It’s like Grand Central Station in there, I can’t get them out of my hair.”

“...Well, I’m trying to _study,”_ Heather prodded his chest.  “Tell your _sex posse_ in there to keep it _down.”_

Cora opened his door, not wearing anything at all, and 417 yanked his grandparents back inside.  “Derek’s getting impatient, Stiles, he can’t take much more,” she flashed a grin before ducking her head back inside, and Heather growled after her.  Stiles’ back thudded against the door as he watched her fingers for lengthening claws.

“I had to buy gags!” Stiles tried to smile his way back into her good graces, and babbled in what he hoped was a charming way.  “Gags, you know, for--for quietness.  I had to test them at the store, it took forever.  Another Costco pack of XXL condoms,” he bit his lips against a giggle. “Glitter. But I’m back now!  And if a gag works on _me--”_ he waggled his eyebrows.

“I coulda brought you some _socks,”_ she hissed, as a knock came from the other side of Stiles’ door.  

“How long you gonna make me _wait,_ honeybunches,” Scott warbled, and Stiles banged on it.  

“I’VE STILL GOT THOSE CHAINS, SCOTT,” he yelled back, and Heather shook her fists at the sky, turned on her heel, and slammed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on Tumblr as platypan and Pillowfort as peterqpan, and I love to chat!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank so much for reading! Comments make me blush and steeple my fingers to plot more fic!


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